I lay on the table in my surgeon’s office, the cape draped around my shoulders open, exposing the breast that is being biopsied today. As my doctor enters the room with her characteristic warm greeting, I feel a rush of gratitude for both the expertise and kindness I have experienced in her care over the past decade.
My husband had held me closely before I left for my appointment, knowing well the emotions that are wrapped up in this procedure for me, given the history I have with previous MRIs, biopsies, scary diagnoses, and surgery. That history is embodied, the accompanying images, sensations, and emotions recalled by my nervous system as I lay on that table.
Over the past couple of years, as I’ve learned more about the autonomic nervous system and its role in both keeping us safe and enabling social connection, I’ve gained a new appreciation for the way my system as been uniquely shaped toward protection. As a little girl, I learned that the level of emotions I felt as a highly sensitive little girl was a problem. What I needed was comfort, someone to help me understand my big feelings, recognize that they come and go, and appreciate their expression as part of the normal human experience. Instead, I was left alone to try and find that safety and connection in whatever ways I could.
Back then, the tears that accompanied feelings of emotional overwhelm felt particularly shameful, evidence I couldn’t hide from others of my inability to manage my emotions. Shame has a way of intensifying with each new experience that confirms what we already fear, so my tears have been wired to a strong feeling of shame for decades. The work of untangling that twisted wire has progressed in fits and starts. Laying on that table with my breast exposed, I experienced a huge leap.
Explaining each step as she works, my doctor instructs me to take deep breaths in and out before holding as she inserts the needle with numbing medication. I appreciate the reminder to breathe, as I tend to hold my breath, braced for whatever is coming. The shots continue for several rounds, enough to make her way all the way around, and then again to test whether I could feel pain. (The answer is yes, which meant more pokes.) Internally, I go to my “calm place” resource, imagining myself gently rocking in the front porch chair of a charming guest house. It works to keep me calm enough during the noise and sensation of the tissue extraction, but eventually I feel the buildup of familiar sensations that herald the imminent arrival of tears.
I manage to keep them at bay until the sutures are complete, and then I hear my doctor call in another nurse to apply pressure for twenty minutes. I recognize the nurse from previous visits; as she moves close and places her hands over the incision in my breast, her kind eyes find mine. I can feel her sensing the vulnerability that has been building inside me.
“Hey there,” she smiles. “I remember you. You know what this means? We’re sisters now!”
The dam breaks, and my tears spill. I hear my doctor’s concerned voice, but my kind sister keeps her eyes on me and starts telling stories that bubble up laughter to join my tears. I have a moment of clarity as I realize that I don’t feel shame for crying! I’m not rushing to try and explain myself or worried about what they think of me.
“I’m okay; it’s just a release.”
I let myself savor the truth of those words—my body and nervous system are working as they are designed.
I honored my tears as evidence of holding all the present and past pain associated with this procedure.
As my new sister continued to lean in, our conversation shifted to current events, namely the political extremism that is threatening the rights we have as women to make decisions about our own bodies. I wonder if there is something about the vulnerability she witnessed that lets her feel safe in my presence because she goes on to talk about her renewed fears as a woman living in a black body in the wake of Sonya Massey’s murder.
I honor her fear and pain with my presence, just as she did mine. Her everyday lived experience is fraught with a fear I will never know. Accepting her warm hug as I leave that day, I am determined to hold my propensity for tears with honor. Where the shame bound to my tears often kept me isolated, I have a new embodied experience of their vulnerability now linked to vulnerability beyond my own—a sacred reminder of our common humanity.
Writing has always been a way for me to make sense of my inner world—a way to integrate the rawness of what I’m feeling inside with what I’m experiencing and learning in the context of the world I inhabit, particularly in the context of the relationships that matter most to me. To have the opportunity to do that in the Red Tent Living community has felt both vulnerable and validating. I have been changed by the ways my stories have been woven together with other women’s stories in this space, and I am grateful.
Janet Stark is a deeply feeling introvert who has learned the value of creating nurturing, restful space in a loud world. She loves the connection that is possible when we slow down and listen to each other with intention. A few of her favorite things include the smell of freshly baked bread, soft blankets, good books, and the warmth of her puppy, Oliver, snuggled up close. Janet and her husband Chris love traveling, especially to spend time with their three adult children.
Your enveloping husband, precise doctor, and seeing “sister” create an underpinning trinity for your inner parts.
“I am determined to hold my propensity for tears with honor.” I’m celebrating with you:)
Janet – thank you for this final essay, and for the courage and generosity required to write and share it. Your presence here, in our community, has always been marked by your tender knowing and how you move towards the depth of the pain, or vulnerability in the stories shared. You are a woman who honors well. We are profoundly grateful to have had you with us since the beginning of this Red Tent Tent.